Wraith
by Kyra4
Summary: This hurts like nothing he's ever known - and Gunther knows hurt.


_A/N: Just a brief interlude with Gunther, another submission to the story game._

* * *

It rips. It tears. It _burns_.

It burns him sleeping.

It burns him waking.

He's at his wits' end; he's not coping. He can't. This hurts like nothing he's ever known.

And Gunther knows hurt.

Gunther knows so many kinds of hurt, he's a veritable goddamn _connoisseur_.

He knows the hurt of growing up motherless, of having one of the most basic, fundamental human needs go unfulfilled. It is a loss, a void, that still aches – even now as he stands poised on the cusp of adulthood, of _knighthood_. It hurts him in his deep places; gnaws quietly at his bones, his very marrow.

He knows the hurt of a father who is distant on his _best_ days. Being ignored is literally the best that Gunther can hope for when it comes to his relationship with Magnus; nowhere in the fabric of that relationship does there exist such a thing as positive attention. All notice is to be avoided if possible; notice invites contempt; mockery; ridicule; overt disappointment despite the fact that Gunther has worked _so hard_ over the years to try and live up to what Magnus wants him to be. The thing is, he doesn't _know_ what Magnus wants him to be… and is starting to suspect that in all actuality, _Magnus doesn't either_.

He knows the hurt of the pariah. Of bearing a surname that damns him; condemns him instantly and thoroughly despite his character, his actions, the fact that he's spent the past several years learning to honor and uphold the knight's code and the good of the kingdom. Sometimes he cannot, for the life of him, understand what compels him to even bother. No matter how exemplary a life he leads, if he lives to be a hundred he will still be Gunther Breech, with all the baggage that entails. He can't escape it. He never _will_.

He knows the hurt of the perpetual outsider. A member of the castle staff? Perhaps… in a way… but at a remove. He'd been invited to move into the knights' quarters on his sixteenth birthday… but everyone else had spent _years_ living together in close proximity by then. The result is that they share a bond, a commonality, a _camaraderie_ based on shared experience that he will never be able to infiltrate or overcome. He's not a stranger, but he's not _one of them_ … and he has no illusions that he ever truly will be.

He knows the hurt of being the lesser of two squires. Never as embraced, as admired, or as praised as Jane. Never as welcomed into any gathering. Never as confided in, never as trusted. Good _GOD_ he had resented all of that – resented _her_ – when he was younger, but he doesn't anymore… not usually. Not much. What's the point of resentment when it's so indisputably _true?_ Jane is _better than him_ , in almost every way. Better by birth, by character, by moral fiber. More courageous. More honorable. More intelligent, he thinks… or at the very least, more studious. More giving, more loving, and _worlds_ more loved. There's really no comparison. A world without Jane would _miss_ Jane. A world without Jane would grieve. A world without _him_ … would barely pause long enough to even notice.

He knows the hurt of harboring an impossible love. Jane is… _exceptional_. So much so that he wouldn't presume to have an actual shot with her even if they were on equal footing, socially speaking. But they are _not_ on equal footing, socially speaking. They inhabit entirely different spheres of the kingdom's social strata. Jane was born to the nobility and he was not; there's nothing that can ever be done about that. It doesn't matter that they have the same lean physiques and calloused hands and aching backs and tired feet from their training and other squire-related duties. It doesn't matter that they've seen each other sweat, and bleed, and exert themselves until they're panting, cramping, shivering. It doesn't matter that each has battered the other black and blue while sparring; that they've raised welts on one another, pried splinters out of each other, practically concussed themselves _and_ each other on various occasions.

All of these things, and a thousand more, are woven inextricably together to create the fabric of his love for her. But none of them, either taken alone or as a whole, are enough to bridge the gulf – the great, yawning chasm – that exists between them.

Noble blood.

Common blood.

Strange…

The color and consistency are the same; he's seen both his own blood and hers enough times, and in close enough proximity, to be absolutely certain of that. And yet…

And yet they're _not_ the same. They're different and that's just _The Way Things Are_ , and who is he to argue with The Way Things Are?

Once he's knighted, the distance between their stations will grow a little less, but honestly, so what? She could still do so much better.

 _Better how?_ Whispers a deep corner of his mind. _Better like Lord Algernon? Is_ he _better for her simply by virtue of the title he holds?_

His jaw, and fists, clench with helpless rage.

NO. Not that, never that. Algernon is not fit to court Smithy's Pig.

Algernon is… is… Gunther forces himself to take a deep, if shaky, breath. Inhale…

Exhale.

* * *

He has to be carful, _very_ carful, when his thoughts turn to Jane's noble suitor – because he is, Gunther's absolutely certain, an extraordinarily dangerous man.

Well, no… that's not exactly right. Algernon's eyes, despite being ridiculously pleasing in color and aspect to most of the castle's female population, contain within them not even the smallest shred of humanity as far as Gunther can ascertain. They are utterly cold; utterly flat; reptilian.

Thus Algernon is _not_ a very dangerous man, Gunther thinks, after all. He's not _any_ kind of man. He's something not entirely human, something… else. And so he knows – he _knows!_ – that he should proceed with extreme caution. But God in heaven, that's so hard to do! Because every time his thoughts turn to Algernon, a red haze begins to descend over his vision. Every time his thoughts turn to Algernon, his heart begins to thud in his chest. His throat tries to close, his palms turn slick, his entire body tenses up; in short, every time his thoughts turn to Algernon, he faces an instant descent into fight-or-flight mode… and that makes it incredibly difficult to think clearly.

Part of it is that he's just so panicked about the threat that he's convinced the noble poses to Jane.

The rest of it is that Algernon is, of course, the engineer of the immense, breathtaking _new_ hurt that is burning him to cinders.

The source of that hurt is the thing – the twisted, disgusting, searingly horrible thing – that Algernon said to him during their fight.

He cannot get it out of his head.

It's lodged there and it's shredding him, _shredding_ him.

It's bad when he's awake. He's barely eating. He's constantly preoccupied, his mind chasing itself in circles; worrying at those awful, cutting words like a dog with a bone, unable to help himself, unable to stop even though the bone is poison, the _words_ are _POISON_.

And it doesn't help that he's absolutely convinced Jane's unexplained illness on the night of the ball was directly tied to Algernon somehow – but without any proof, he's utterly helpless to act on his hunch.

 _No. Not a hunch. A conviction. He_ was _behind it and if she had finished that drink_ –

Red haze, trying to envelope him. Gritting his teeth, he wills it back. There must be something he's missing, some connection, and he has to think of it, he _has_ to. But it's so hard. Coherent thought is becoming increasingly elusive, a result of the sleep deprivation.

It's turning him gaunt. Pronounced five-o-clock shadow, eyes that are almost feverish with exhaustion. Because as bad as it is when he's awake, it's nothing compared to when he's asleep.

It's the _nights_ that are pure, undiluted hell.

He'd been having certain… _kinds_ … of dreams about Jane lately anyway, which had been, well, disconcerting – but not entirely unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all, if he were being honest about it. Now, though…

Now, it's torture. When he's asleep he can actually still _hear_ Algernon's slithering voice, his venomous, deadly words, repeating over, and over, and _over_ again, endlessly. It's tearing him to pieces. His dreams – his _nightmares_ – have devolved to the point where they are about one thing and one thing only; Algernon making good on his threat.

And his own helplessness to stop him.

He's been bolting awake night after night; breath constricted, heart racing, body coated in cold sweat. And getting back to sleep after _that?_ Forget it. So every night, for the past several nights, he's ended up exactly where he is right now; guarding Jane's door like some gaunt, silent wraith.

Sometimes he sits on the steps to her tower; sometimes he paces at its base. But this last nightmare was the most vivid, the most heinous, that he's ever had, and tonight he is actually sitting with his back pressed to the door itself, as close as he can possibly get to her without being inside her room.

And oh God, it _hurts_.

Algernon's horrible, insidious, taunt that he doesn't think he'll _ever_ be able to chase from his mind.

It burns.

This conviction that she's in danger, and his inability to take decisive action to neutralize the threat.

It shreds. The knowledge that even _were_ Algernon removed from the equation, he himself would not realistically ever have a chance.

He drops his head into his hands, the picture of quiet despair.

Inhale.

Exhale.

This is insupportable.

What is he going to _do?_


End file.
